


drunk words (and sober thoughts)

by cursedwurm



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Asexual Character, Drinking, Drunken Kissing, First Kiss, Light Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, Set in Season 1, TMA Valentine's Exchange 2021 (The Magnus Archives), bonding over hating heterosexuals, gnc martin bc i said so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:48:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29433399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cursedwurm/pseuds/cursedwurm
Summary: Jon regrets ever accepting the invitation. He tells himself that - silently, of course- as he waits in the taxi for Martin to finish getting ready, tapping his fingers impatiently on the car door. The party starts at half eight; it’s still only six o’clock and it’s only an hour and a half’s drive, but he’s desperate to not make a bad impression by showing up an hour after everyone else - and if Martin ruins that for him he is not going to be happy.ORJon and Martin hating heterosexuals and liking each other more than they'll admit for several hours straight.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 8
Kudos: 78
Collections: TMA Valentine's Exchange 2021





	drunk words (and sober thoughts)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vanroesburg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanroesburg/gifts).



> this is my fic for the tma valentine's exchange for Van!! I went with the "idiots to lovers" (though this is mostly just idiots) and s1 prompt! 
> 
> a few warnings for:  
> \- drinking  
> \- canon-typical martins mum  
> \- a little implied homophobia + acephobia
> 
> I hope you enjoy it!!!

“What do you mean, you can’t go?” Jon narrows his eyes, crossing his arms as Tim sips his coffee with a shrug.

“I mean I can’t make it anymore,” he replies, “Look, I know you wanted me to accompany you, but something… personal came up and now I have to cancel. Maybe you could find someone else to go with you?”

Jon buries his face in his hands with a groan. This is the worst-case scenario; someone from uni had invited him to a stag do, and no-one was available to come with him. It’s not that he’s nervous or doesn’t want to go alone, it’s just that… Actually, no, that’s  _ exactly  _ what it is. He’s nervous, he doesn’t want to go alone, and Georgie had already turned down her invitation to the hen do- an invitation that Jon had been too awkward and/or polite to turn down.

Not that he’s going to tell Tim that. Or anyone, for that matter.

He eventually sighs, rubbing his temple in frustration. “Who else am I supposed to go with then, hm?” he asks.

“Can’t you go alone?”

“I wish,” Jon answers, “It’s a, uh… dance… kind of thing. If I don’t bring a partner, I’ll have to find one there and that’s the last thing I want to do.” He cringes internally at his own awful lie, hoping that Tim won’t see straight through it. In reality, he knows he was never close enough to anyone there (except Georgie, of course) to have the confidence to show up alone.

Fortunately, he doesn’t notice (or at least he pretends he doesn’t) and nods understandingly, kissing his teeth in thought before continuing, “What about Sasha? I’m sure she’ll come if you pay for her drinks.”

“Already asked her,” Jon says, “She was my first choice.”

“I see.”

There’s silence for a few moments after that, during which Tim’s eyes stray to the opposite side of the room, landing on the empty desk by the bookshelf. It’s slightly messier than his own or Sasha’s desks - partially due to the empty mugs scattered across it that are yet to be put away. Jon follows his gaze, narrowing his eyes and shaking his head as he realises what he’s suggesting.

“No,” he says, “I am not bringing him, Tim, it’ll be--”

Tim interrupts him with a frown. “Do you have anyone else you can ask?”

“...No.”

“Exactly.” He slurps his coffee pointedly, before sitting back down at his desk to return to his work. “Besides, you’re way too hard on him, Jon. Maybe you’ll enjoy yourselves.”

Jon opens his mouth to argue but closes it again when he realises that Tim has quite purposefully ended the conversation. 

“Fine,” he eventually says, “But next time we go out, you’re paying for drinks.”

\--

Jon regrets ever accepting the invitation. He tells himself that - silently, of course- as he waits in the taxi for Martin to finish getting ready, tapping his fingers impatiently on the car door. The party starts at half eight; it’s still only six o’clock and it’s only an hour and a half’s drive, but he’s desperate to not make a bad impression by showing up an hour after everyone else - and if Martin ruins that for him he is  _ not  _ going to be happy. He rechecks his phone and sighs. The text he sent Martin, a good seven minutes ago now, to check if he’s ready remains unread, and he’s starting to get antsy.

_ ‘If he makes me late,’ _ he thinks to himself, ‘ _ Tim owes me one. No, he owes me two _ .’

He folds his arms with a frown, narrowing his eyes as he looks out of the window to Martin’s house; a small building in the centre of a terrace with an overgrown front garden and Ford Fiesta that’s seen much better days pulled up by the pavement in front of it. There’s a light on upstairs, and against the half-pulled curtains Jon can just about make out the fuzzy silhouette of Martin pulling on a jacket as he talks to someone else in the room. He relaxes a bit at this - at least he hasn’t got the wrong time or, god forbid,  _ forgotten  _ \- but there’s still the gnawing anxiety in the back of his mind that  _ something  _ is going to go wrong, something that could’ve been entirely avoidable if he’d just taken Tim as his plus one instead of Martin. 

Jon’s so caught up in his thoughts that he barely realises when the door to the cab opens and Martin enters, looking slightly flustered.

“I hope I’m not late,” he says, “I had some issues with, uh…” Jon raises his brow and Martin looks down, averting his gaze, “Never mind.”

“Right.” Jon kisses his teeth and checks his watches as Martin fusses with his hair in a small compact mirror. Despite him being, well, Martin, even Jon has to admit that he does clean up rather nicely. He's wearing a navy blue wrap dress and a pair of matching heels. He looks comfortable (if a little stressed) as he applies a coating of cherry red lipstick in his compact (Jon wants to wrinkle his nose at the fact that it’s Revolution, but he supposes Martin has to make do on his current salary). 

Jon hesitates as the taxi pulls away from Martin’s house, before sighing and saying, “You look… nice.” Martin seems somewhat surprised at this, and he looks up with flushed cheeks (though that might be blush, something Jon has never bothered with) as he hears him say it. 

“Oh!” he exclaims, “You think so?” He tucks a strand of his hair behind his ear - a nervous habit that Jon’s noticed at work - and laughs anxiously.

“Yes,” Jon answers simply, not wanting to seem  _ too  _ impressed with how Martin looks, “The navy blue suits you.”

“Thank you,” Martin smiles, “You, uhh, don’t look too bad yourself.”

The rest of the journey is mostly quiet. Martin seems more than content to stare out the window, occasionally adjusting the sleeves of his dress or fussing with his hair in his reflection on the window. Jon checks his watch near-religiously, clenching his fists in his lap each time the minute hand moves forwards - too slow yet somehow far too quickly at the same time. He’s grateful that Martin seems to be just as worried about making a good impression as he is, mostly because if he acted how he did at work _ Jon _ would not want people to think they were, god forbid,  _ friends.  _ Either way, the fact that he’s not the only one on edge does help to calm his nerves, in a strange sort of way. Because, though he hates to admit it,  _ desperate  _ to impress the people at the party. 

He has a vague idea of who will be there; he’s aware of at least twelve people who have RSVP’d, and another seven who have been invited, and none of them had really been his friends in university. They’d all been Georgie’s, and he only knew them because she’d introduced them to him after they’d started dating. They’d always been, for lack of better phrasing, so much  _ cooler  _ than him, and he can remember college parties and nights out where he’d watched them drink too much and make very stupid decisions while he’d remained somewhat timidly in one corner until someone drunkenly pulled him into the fray. In fact, there’s only one or two of them that’s actually kept in contact since graduating, and when he’s friended them on Facebook or followed them on Instagram, he’s done so out of politeness and because they followed him first. He’s honestly surprised that the groom in question, a man he’d studied with called Liam Matthews, had even thought to invite him.

Of course, there was no way he could go alone. If he didn’t bring a friend to prove that he wasn’t still a complete loser, he could at least bring someone who would make him look better than he actually is. 

Now that he thinks about it, inviting Martin probably wasn’t the worst idea in the world.

The taxi pulls up outside the bar and Jon pays for their ride (despite Martin’s protests) and Jon finds himself composing himself before they enter. Martin shivers in the cold - to be fair, the weather is surprisingly cool for April - and Jon sighs.

“You okay?” he asks.

Martin gives him a sheepish smile. “Yeah,” he replies, “Just think I should’ve brought a coat. ...What about you?”

Jon purses his lips, hesitating before he answers, “I’m fine.” He adjusts the sleeve of his jacket, mouth suddenly dry. “I’m just… nervous. It’s been a while since I’ve seen anyone here.”

“I see,” Martin nods understandingly, “Well, hey, we’re both in the same boat. If you wanna head home early I’m absolutely fine with that.” He smiles, and Jon can tell from the way his cheeks crease around his eyes that it’s a genuine, sweet gesture. He relaxes, just a little, and returns his smile.

“Thank you, Martin,” he says, “I really appreciate that.” 

They both seem to hang back for a moment or so, each waiting for the other to enter the bar. In the end it’s Martin who starts to head inside first, and Jon follows a little behind him, silently cursing his own nerves as he trails behind Martin like a lost puppy. 

The bar itself is… not what Jon had expected. I mean, the groom had studied history at Oxford, for god’s sake, so he’d expected something… a bit more tasteful than  _ this. _

The bar is perhaps closer to a club, with bright lights and pounding music that Jon can feel in his ribcage. There’s a few tables here and there, as well as neon-coloured stools lined up against the bar itself, but other than that most of the bar is taken up with a dimly-lit dance floor and table games. That’s not necessarily bad, per se, just not what Jon had expected. 

The bad part is the fact that this stag do is… well, your run-of-the-mill stag do.

He and Martin are dressed significantly better than anyone else there, as well as being some of the few people who aren’t wearing a t-shirt bearing a black and white photo of the groom, drunk at a college party in his now-fiancee’s underwear. The decor hung up around the bar is uncomfortable to say the least, bearing cartoon women wearing very little and drawn in a style that’s not tasteful, artistic or even remotely attractive; said images also adorn a custom-made banner reading “ _ LIAM’S LAST NIGHT OF FREEDOM _ ” in ugly blue ‘masculine’ lettering. Jon’s not sure if the tightness in his throat and the warmth in his face comes from the embarrassment of assuming the event would be at least  _ somewhat  _ respectable, or from the sheer discomfort he experiences as he realises most of the snacks provided are in the shape of female anatomy.

Judging by the way he shifts uncomfortably beside him, Martin feels the exact same way.

Liam calls him over to the group, clearly already slightly tipsy as he waves at him. 

“Jon!” he calls, “You came!”

Jon holds back the urge to scream. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, man!” he smiles, cringing at his own words. Liam grabs him and pulls him in for a slightly awkward hug (at least, it’s awkward for Jon), patting him on the back a little too hard before pulling away at arm's length.

“Damn, you look tired,” Liam comments, “Long journey?”

“Uh.. yeah, something like that.”

“And who’s your friend?” Liam looks up at Martin, who waves nervously from where he stands by the lingerie cupcakes.

“That’s Martin,” he explains, “He’s a, uhh, friend from w--”

He cuts off before he gets to finish as Liam grabs him by the wrist and holds his hand way too close to his face. His eyes widen and his grin doubles in size, as he exclaims, “Holy shit! You got married?”

Jon freezes. “ _ I what? _ ”

It’s only a few seconds before the rest of the stag party is gathered around him as Liam holds up his right hand for all of them to see, like it's an exhibit in a museum instead of a part of someone’s body. They cheer excitedly, drunkenly congratulating him with beers and breast-shaped appetizers in hand, and it takes a good minute or so (though it feels like an hour) for Jon to realise why on Earth they’d think he were married: on the middle finger of his right hand, he wears a plain black ring. 

And they think it’s a wedding ring.

It takes a while for the shock of it to wear enough for him to yank his arm away, blushing profusely as he lets them know that, _ no, he’s definitely not married, this is just an accessory _ ,  _ I swear. _

One of the men in the group laughs, and Jon vaguely recognises him as one of Georgie’s old flatmates (Stephen Richards? Or was it Richard Stephens??) as he approaches him and Martin with a drink each.

“So when did you and Georgie… you know?”

Jon frowns. “Oh, we uhh… broke up about a year after we graduated,” he explains, “It… wasn’t easy for either of us.”

“Ah…” Stephen (or is it Richard?) nods, and Jon wrinkles his nose at the smell of cheap beer and even cheaper cologne as he gets close, wrapping an arm around him like he’s an old friend. “That’s a shame,” he continues, “She was pretty fit, to be honest.”

“Uh…”

“So you and uh…” Stephen (or Richard) gestures vaguely towards Martin, “Matthew, was it? When did you get hitched?”

Jon stares at him. “What?”

Stephen/Richard throws his hands up defensively like he’s just been accused of some heinous crime (which, in Jon’s mind, is not far off from what he’s done). “Or just, uhh, when did you propose? I heard marriage can be expensive--”

And that’s when Jon snaps.

“ _ I’m not fucking married _ !” he yanks himself away from the group, the sudden motion causing him to splash beer down his shirt, raising his voice far louder than he means to. The bar goes quiet for a few seconds and he’s suddenly acutely aware of every pair of eyes in the room, including Martin’s, fixed on him at the sudden outburst. He swallows, licking his suddenly dry lips as the group mumbles a string of half-hearted apologies, shuffling awkwardly back into the circle they’d been locked tightly in before he and Martin had arrived. All of a sudden, Jon’s back in university; he’s standing in a corner at a party, wincing at the volume of the music as he watches Georgie loudly encourage one of her friends to chug a can of Budweiser. His own drink remains mostly untouched in his hand, the other buried in his jacket pocket as he shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other. 

“ _ I hadn’t belonged there, _ ” he thinks, “ _ And I don’t belong here either. _ ”

Jon feels like he’s standing there for hours before anything else happens; the mood’s changed drastically, and he finds himself sitting on a barstool just far away enough from everyone else that they’re unlikely to interact with him again until at least half of them are completely sloshed. Martin sits beside him, silent, staring into his empty pint glass; he looks like he wants to say something but is yet to open his mouth and, quite frankly, Jon really isn't in the mood to start up a conversation with  _ Martin _ of all people. When the silence between them is finally broken it's Jon who speaks first, clearing throat and announcing matter-of-factly that he's going to the bathroom. Martin nods, and as Jon gets up he notices him doing the same. 

The bathroom isn't particularly large - a few urinals, two stalls and a long trough-like sink fill the dimly-lit room. Still, it's empty and the door blocks out the thumping beat of the music and the drunk laughter of the rest of the party, so Jon can hardly complain. He splashes his face with cold water while Martin uses one of the stalls, before pulling his hair into a ponytail away from his face. He watches as Martin washes his hands and reapply a coat of lipstick, which had rubbed off on his glass, before letting out and sight and leaning against the wall.

"Do we  _ have _ to go back out there?" he asks, "No offence, but I don't really, uh… like your friends."

Jon scoffs. "They're not my friends, Martin."

"But you said-"

"I lied," he admits, "I lied. Most of these people only knew me because they knew my ex, they probably invited me last-minute out of politeness."

Martin sucks his front teeth in thought for a few moments. "...Yeah, it does seem like that," he agrees, pauses, then, "Do you want to leave or…?" 

Letting out a groan Jon shakes his head, before joining him in leaning against the wall of the bathroom in defeat. "I didn't come all this way to go home after…" He checks his watch. "Forty minutes. Besides, I think Tim wanted me to let him know how it went and I'm not sure he'll be too pleased with " _ I yelled at them, sulked by the bar for half an hour then went home". _ "

"I see…" Martin sighs, playing with the clasp on his bag. He furrows his brow for a few moments, clearly deep in thought. Jon raises his own, somewhat suspicious.

"... Whatever you're thinking of doing, it better not involve going back out there," he warns him.

Martin just laughs. "You'll see."

\--

Which is how Jon finds himself sat at a table in the corner of a bar on a Friday night with Martin Blackwood of all people, three (or is it four) pints in, the effects of which are starting to set in. Martin’s also drinking - why not, it isn’t like either of them are driving - and the stag do that they’re both  _ technically  _ a part of has been long forgotten.

Jon knows he doesn’t hold his alcohol well - he’s always been on the shorter and slimmer side, even before he'd transitioned. Martin seems to hold his much better; though he’s just as drunk as Jon, he’s had to go through a whole extra pint to get there, and he’s currently laughing at something that he’d said (which hadn’t even been that funny, to be honest). He’s far more tolerable like this, to be honest, though Jon’s not sure whether that’s a result of Martin’s drinking, his own or simply the fact that, unlike when they’re at work, Martin actually seems comfortable in himself at the moment. 

In any other situation, he wouldn’t have dwelled on this, figuring that he doesn’t know his assistant well enough to pry into such things. However, this isn’t any other situation; this is them getting drunk in a bar together when they should be celebrating the wedding of a man neither of them really know. So, naturally, Jon allows his curiosity to get the better of him, and he downs the rest of his beer before turning to face him.

“Martin,” he says, carefully picking his words in order to sound less drunk than he actually is, “Why don’t you do this at work?”

Martin looks up from his drink and tilts his head to one side in confusion. “... Why I don’t do what? Drink?”

Jon laughs at that, far harder than he would’ve laughed if he were sober. “No, no,” he shakes his head with a snort, “I meant like… why don’t you dress like this at work? It suits you.”

It’s hard to see in the dim lights of the bar, but Jon swears that Martin’s cheeks turn red at this and he shrinks back slightly in embarrassment, almost as if he’s trying to hide from the complement. He giggles softly - perhaps out of sheer nervousness - and shrugs.

“I don’t know,” he admits, “I just don’t think it’s very professional.”

Jon frowns. “Why not?”

There’s a moment’s hesitation, and at that moment Jon swears he sees something flash across Martin’s face, something that makes him seem small and scared and so horribly out of his depth. The breath he takes before answering the question is deep and shaky, and he puts his glass down on the table with a sigh. “It’s just… I remember when I went to my interview with Elias my mum…" His voice trails off for a second, quivering gently as he composed himself. "... my mum told me that I needed to give a good first impression. I couldn't let them know there was anything…  _ undesirable _ about me."

Jon narrows his eyes. "Like what? The fact that you look really good in a dress?"

Martin swallows, bottom lip wobbling. "I… I guess so. I don't think she's ever liked… any of this--" He gestures vaguely towards himself, "-- But I think she realised that she couldn't stop me, so instead she just makes sure that others don't find out."

" _Arsehole_."

"Tell me about it," Martin lets out a half-hearted chuckle, "Honestly, that's part of the reason why I was late this evening. I, uh, had an argument with my mum about the dress. She didn’t want me to wear it out, least of all with a co-worker, and, I don’t know, I guess I finally got the guts to stick up to her and tell her that I’m a grown man and I can do what I fucking want, and she got pissed and said that I was going to end up making a fool of myself and that if I had a terrible time not to say she’d told me so and--” His rambling becomes shaky, voice breaking as the four pints of beer he’d drank noticeably starting to take their toll. Jon reaches out and rests his hand on his, squeezing it tightly between his fingers to comfort him.

“Martin,” he says, uncharacteristically soft, “It’s okay, I prom--” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence, his words cut off as Martin leans over towards him and grabs him, wrapping his arms around his body and hugging him tightly. Jon gasps - partially in surprise at the sudden gesture and partially in shock at how much stronger his assistant is than he looks - freezing for a second before giving in and hugging back.

Martin's a good hugger, he thinks (though this is probably just a result of the alcohol impairing his judgement). He's sweet and soft and open, his body radiating a comforting warmth without it being sweaty or uncomfortable. He holds onto Jon and Jon holds on back, fingers gripping the navy blue fabric of his dress and burying his face in the crook of Martin's neck. He can tell by the way that he shakes in his arms that he's crying and--

Wait.

Oh no.

He's crying too.

In any other situation Jon would've pulled away in shame of letting anyone,  _ especially Martin Blackwood _ , see him so vulnerable, but right now  _ isn't  _ any other situation so for once he allows his walls to come down. He practically melts into the embrace, paying little to no notice to the tears rolling down his cheeks. He's not sure how long they stay like that, hugging in the dimly lit corner of a shitty bar, but he doesn't want it to end, drunk on cheap-tasting beer and high on the tender human contact that he'd normally shy away from.

"I'm sorry," he tells Martin, blurting it out like it's being forced out of him, "I'm always so harsh on you and I shouldn't be, it's not fair that I treat you like that, I--"

He's cut off suddenly as Martin pulls away and holds him at arm's length. He furrows his brow, eyes wildly flicking up and down as if he's searching for something but isn't quite sure what. Jon frowns, confused.

"Martin, what are you--"

"You're cute," Martin announces, firm and matter-of-fact, like it's common knowledge and no big deal for him to say it out of nowhere. Jon nearly chokes on his spit.

"I'm  _ wha _ t?"

"You're cute," he repeats himself, apparently unfazed by his own boldness, "And I'd like to kiss you now."

"Oh," Jon says dumbly. " _ Oh _ ."

"Jon?"

".... Sure, why not?"

And so Martin does. He grabs Jon (perhaps a little too roughly) by the collar of his shirt and pulls him in to kiss him. Their lips press together messily and Jon finds himself wrinkling his nose in concentration as he tilts his head slightly to adjust his position into something a little less awkward. The kiss is fast and messy, fuelled by months of months of stress and hours of drinking, perhaps with a sprinkling on emotional repression on Jon's side. It's certainly nothing  _ spectacular _ but they're both too drunk to care, pulling each other closer as their lips slot together and slide apart, until there's no more room left between them. Jon closes his eyes, tangling his fingers in Martin's hair and focusing on the way his mouth feels pressed against his own: warm and slick and sticky with lipstick. It's not an unpleasant sensation, all things considered, and he expresses this by letting out a hum of appreciation and parting his lips as Martin probes them with his tongue. 

Maybe it's the alcohol talking, but he's a good kisser, perhaps even more than he is a good hugger. His tongue is hot and wet against Jon's own, drunk and hungry, as he pulls him closer, closer, impossibly so, one hand cupping his face and the other resting on his hip. The kiss is no less frantic than it was earlier, all tongue and teeth and hot, laboured breathing, sweaty and slightly uncomfortable in the corner of the bar. Yet, despite this, Jon doesn't want to pull away and, judging by how close he is, how his tongue is still eagerly exploring the inside of his mouth, how the hand he had placed on Jon's waist is now slowly making its wait down to rest on his thigh, Martin doesn't want to either.

\--

When Jon wakes up on Saturday afternoon he doesn't know… much.

He knows his head hurts. He knows he hadn't enjoyed the party he'd attended the previous night and he knows that he'd drank a little more than perhaps he'd intended to. He knows Martin had been there and he also knows, from the vomit stains on his trousers (which he'd slept in, apparently) that at least one of them had, at some point, thrown up. He rubs his head, which feels like someone has got it with a hammer, before dragging his heavy body out of bed and making his way to the bathroom to find a pack of painkillers.

He eats a piece of dry toast for his breakfast (well, lunch. It's nearly two-thirty after all) and checks his phone, noticing that he has several messages from Martin. Out of habit he rolls his eyes, before clicking on the notification to view the messages.

_ 'heyyyyyyyyyyy jonnnnn lmk when ur home xxxx' _   
sent 01:16

_ 'we should do this again sometime it was fun also I can't type I'm using speech to text my hands won't move properly anyway let me know when you're home Jon ok bye'  
_ sent 01:43

_ 'morning jon, I hope you aren't too hung over from last night! sorry if those last few messages weren't particularly professional, I wasn't exactly so we last night lol. hope you got home safe and take care of yourself this weekend! see you on monday! _

_ -Martin'  
_ sent 10:27

_ 'btw I found a cufflink caught in my dress, I think it's yours. I'll bring it to work on Monday'  
_ sent 10:32

Jon can't help but smile at the last few texts, and quickly replies to Martin to let him know that it's fine and he'll pick up his cufflink at work the following week.

His smile only widens as he realises that, considering how friendly and not-that-weird Martin's texts were, it's highly unlikely that anything  _ bad  _ had happened the previous night. From what he can piece together, the two of them had gone to an engagement party, drank a little too much and had got home not long after one in the morning. Not too bad, all things considered. He lets out a sigh of relief and slowly finishes his toast, the ibuprofen he'd taken slowly but surely working on his headache. This does, of course, mean that he won't have much to report when Tim inevitably asks how the party had gone when he gets to work on Monday, though he supposed he should be grateful for that. Despite what he says, Tim is not always the best at keeping secrets, especially not of the 'office gossip' variety and Jon is sure that if something… questionable  _ had  _ happened last night, it would only be a matter of days until the entire institute knew about it.

He supposes he should be grateful for small mercies.


End file.
